


Revenge

by HereBeDragons



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Origins
Genre: Drug Use, F/M, Gift Fic, Humor, NSFW, Smut, aphrodisiac, landsmeet, use of aphrodisiac
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-09
Updated: 2014-03-09
Packaged: 2018-01-15 04:52:09
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 3,139
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1292095
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HereBeDragons/pseuds/HereBeDragons
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It’s the fourth day of the Landsmeet, and when King Bran Cousland decides to pull a prank on his lovely wife to liven things up a bit, Queen Anora will not rest until she has gotten her “revenge.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. A herd of eighteen cattle

**Author's Note:**

  * For [asolitaryrose](https://archiveofourown.org/users/asolitaryrose/gifts).



> This was written for the gorgeous, wonderful and perfect ASolitaryRose, as a gift for her birthday. It features her adorable Warden, and King of Ferelden, Bran Cousland. Happy birthday, darling! <3 
> 
> This work is not part of "Unshaken by the Darkness."

The fourth day of the Landsmeet was always the worst. The longest. The most interminable.  

On the first day, there was a spirit of camaraderie and discovery, as friendships were renewed, and the agenda for the week was set. There was always the chance that something exciting might happen - the arrival of a dwarven emissary, for example - and it was amusing to see what new things the Bannorn thought up to argue about. 

The second and third days were somewhat less exciting, since any surprises had already been sprung during the opening session. But the most pressing business would be discussed, and this was important, satisfying work. 

By day five, the end was in sight. With a bit of luck, things might even wrap up early, and people could begin their preparations for the royal hunt at the end of the week. If the Landsmeet did stretch to a sixth day, however, that final day always went smoothly, as no one had the energy to argue, and so agreements were easily made. 

But today was the fourth day, and it was always a challenge. There was still a mountain of business to slog through, and no end yet in sight, and it was difficult to stay focused. Right now, they were discussing the taxes that had been collected during the past year, and how best to distribute goods to those areas hit hardest by the recent Blight. This was important work, but after listening to report after report, Anora felt her attention begin to drift.

Bann Teagan stood. “It would be helpful if we could hear the report from Oswin, Your Majesties, since Bann Valdric was not able to be here himself to present it.”

"Of course." King Bran shuffled through a small stack of parchments, and selected one. He cleared his throat. "According to Bann Valdric’s report, Oswin has sent-"

He stopped, mid-sentence, and coughed into his balled fist. Once. Twice. Then a third time.

Anora put a hand on her husband’s shoulder. “Bran,” she murmured, “is everything all right?”

"Yes." Cough. "I’ve just got a tickle in my throat. It’s nothing." Cough. "But if you would read the report for me? Please?"

"Of course." She took the parchment from his hand, and spoke in a voice designed to carry throughout the hall. "Oswin’s tithe this year consists of: two hundred bales of wool, fifty barrels of wine, forty-five jars of oil, my head between-"

She stopped mid sentence, as her brain registered the words on the parchment: “ _my head between your legs.”_

Maker’s balls.

Heat rushed to her cheeks as her eyes darted to her husband; at her side, Bran was trying - rather unsuccessfully - to hide his smirk.

He’d done that on purpose. Altered the list. And she’d only barely caught herself before it was too late.

Anora cleared her throat. “Pardon me,” she continued, “the ink was smudged and difficult to read. Where was I? Oh yes: fifty jars of oil, a  _herd_  of  _eighteen_  cattle, four hogs, and one hundred sacks of barley.” She paused. “Bann Loren, can we hear from River Dane next?”

As Loren Blaydon stood to address the Landsmeet, Bran stopped even trying to pretend he wasn’t amused. A grin that was somewhere past mischievous burst across his face. When Anora fixed him with a disdainful stare, he merely winked.

He thought himself awfully clever, didn’t he?

She leaned close, and whispered into his ear, her voice throaty and low, “Two can play at that game, my love.”

When she smiled at him, one brow arched high, his grin faltered. Just a bit. 


	2. That thing with my tongue

The luncheon consisted of hearty Fereldan fare served in the palace garden. Thankfully, the weather had stayed fair during this first week of August, and everyone was happy to be outside, enjoying these few last lovely weeks of warmth before autumn made its arrival. The king and queen sat side by side, at a table with Leonas Bryland and Alfstanna Eremon, and of course, Bran’s brother, Fergus, and an amiable conversation was in progress.

"So." Fergus turned to Alfstanna. "Where is that lovely wife of yours? I take it she opted to stay in Waking Sea this year?"

"Yes. I tried to get her to accompany me, but she said she just wasn’t up to facing the endless salons that would be required of her."

Anora leaned close to her husband. 

"It’s such a shame I can’t lean down right now, get you out of those trousers, and take you in my mouth," she whispered into his ear. Then she sat up straight again. "I don’t blame Helene at all," Anora said to Alfstanna. "Salons can be so tedious."

Bran had frozen in place, and a slight blush rose on his cheeks. So far, so good. 

"Habren," Leonas began, "has always seemed to love salons. The chance to spend time with her friends, gossiping wildly. And I suppose she enjoys the opportunity to show off new songs she’s learned on the clavichord. I enjoy salons, simply because I know if she’s in attendance at one, she’s not spending my money in the marketplace." 

This garnered a round of laughter. 

"So." Leonas turned to Fergus. "How is construction coming along in your harbor? I understand the first of the caravels is nearly complete?" 

"Yes," Fergus replied. "It looks as though the ship will be seaworthy within the month, and we’ve another shipment of lumber coming from Gwaren to begin work on the next one right away." 

"It’s a good time to increase the fleet," Alfstanna said. "It will help with our defense, and also open up new opportunities for trade." 

"Exactly," Fergus agreed. "To be honest, it’s been a bit embarrassing all this time. For a country that is anything but landlocked, we’ve had a pathetically small naval force." 

As Fergus spoke, Anora leaned close to her husband again. “I could do that thing with my tongue,” she whispered. “You know.  _That_  thing.”

"And," Fergus continued, "to be honest, it feels like something of a memorial for our parents. For years, they had hoped to get Highever involved in the shipbuilding trade. Isn’t that right, Bran?" 

"What?" Bran swallowed, and his cheeks flushed more deeply. Clearly, he had not been following the conversation. 

"Your parents were in favor of building more ships, darling," Anora purred. "Weren’t they?" 

"Ships?" Bran’s eyes grew wide, and he gave a rather awkward smile. "Yes. They liked ships. There’s a harbor in Highever, after all."

Fergus arched at brow. ”Is everything all right little brother? You look … flustered.”

"Oh, no. Everything’s fine." Bran nearly stumbled over the words, in his hurry to get them out. "Just fine. Just thinking about ships. Y-you … you know how glad I am you’re building ships in Highever now."

"Yes." Fergus sounded unconvinced. He  shrugged, and got to his feet. "I think I’m going to have a wander around the rose garden before the afternoon session gets started. Would anyone care to join me?" 

Alfstanna and Leonas both eagerly agreed. Bran, too, rested his palms on the table, as though he meant to push himself up out of his seat, but Anora stopped him with a touch on his leg. Once again, she leaned close, and breathed into his ear.

"I think perhaps you should sit here just a while longer, my love." Taking care not to move her upper arm in a way anyone might notice, she slid her hand down between his legs. Oh yes. Her words had already had exactly the effect she’d hoped they would. With a firm pressure - one she knew from experience would do the trick, she rubbed her hand down his length, and up again.Almost immediately he seemed ready to burst through the fabric of his trousers. 

"Herd of eighteen … cattle, indeed," she murmured. 

Then she stood and, with a merry laugh, abandoned her husband at the table. No doubt, it would be at least a few minutes before he could risk standing with no danger of his ‘condition’ being noticed. 

Anora hurried to catch up with the others. She always did love the rose garden. 


	3. The perfect picture of a dedicated king

The afternoon session of the Landsmeet had been remarkably dull. 

Not just because Bann Perrin insisted on talking at length about water rights on the Hafter River, even after it had been agreed that no dam construction would take place during the next year, until a committee was created to investigate the matter more thoroughly. 

Nor because Brother Genitivi came to deliver yet another heartfelt plea for funds and military support for yet another expedition to search for the sacred ashes of the Beloved Prophet. Of course, Bran knew exactly where they were located, but had kept that a secret from all but a select few. Genitivi had not been one of the few. As always, Bran would agree to give the man just enough money to keep busy. And hope that Genitivi never realized that Bran had found those ashes more than a year ago. 

Nor because of Bann Ceorlic’s typical and transparent fawning, as though he feared someone would take his bannric from him if he didn’t bow and scrape to the king. By now it should have been obvious; if the bannric was to be taken away, that would have happened long ago. Perhaps right after he’d removed all his soldiers from Lothering, and sealed the town’s fate.

No. It was dull because Bran had taken no further action. No return fire. Anora had expected another potentially embarrassing note, or a bawdy double-entendre told at her expense. Perhaps a silently mouthed threat of something scandalous he intended to do to her later. Something  - anything - in retaliation for the little trick she had played on during lunch. 

But no. He’d done nothing. 

When she glanced at him, he gave her a warm, benign smile, and turned his attention back to the discussion at hand. 

It was disappointing. Frustrating, almost. Cheeky of him, to be honest, to ignore her like this. To refuse to play the game that he himself had started.

She snuck another glance, and studied his profile. His neatly trimmed beard, the firm, round line of his lips, his regal nose and the light spray of freckles that crossed it. His green eyes were intent on Ceorlic, as though desperately interested in the proceedings. The perfect picture of a dedicated king. 

Very cheeky. 

An idea popped into her mind. A deliciously naughty idea. Oh yes. 

She chuckled softly. 

Yes. She knew exactly what she would do to get her “revenge.”  


	4. Just a small vial

The mid-week banquet was well attended. That was no surprise. There were few nobles who would fail to turn up when the crown provided food and entertainment. Tonight, the kitchen staff had outdone themselves, and now the orchestra had begun to tune their instruments for the dance. Anora felt a comfortable flush from the wine she’d drunk with dinner and, at her side, Bran seemed in excellent spirits.

He turned to her, and smiled warmly. ”I trust you’ll dance the first dance with me, my love? And perhaps some of the others?” 

"Of course." A genuine smile burst across her face. "I should like that very much." 

She enjoyed dancing, and Bran was a magnificent partner. Tonight, though, she had another reason for smiling. Dancing would give her exactly the opportunity she needed to get back at Bran for his lackluster performance that afternoon. Not even a single naughty note? For shame. 

A few minutes earlier, when he’d looked the other way, she had slipped the contents of a small vial of liquid into his wine goblet. A distillation of an herb called tribulus. A mild aphrodisiac. It was something they’d used together a few times in the past - not that Bran needed the encouragement, but it was fun to try new things from time to time. Tonight, Anora hoped it would warm his blood just enough that, when they danced, she could light a fire inside of him that would burn brightly all evening. She didn’t want him to be uncomfortable, just frustrated enough that by the time the festivities ended, and they were able to go upstairs to the quarters they shared, he would be more than ready to satisfy her every whim. 

That seemed a suitable punishment. 

Anora took the arm Bran offered, and together, they stepped onto the dance floor. The orchestra launched into a piece of music in three-quarter time, something called a waltz. This was a dance that had only recently made its way to Ferelden, all the way from the Anderfels. Dagna - the dwarf who had left Orzammar to study magic at Kinloch Hold - had learned it from a mage from up north, and taught it to everyone she knew. It had caught on very quickly. 

The waltz was rather different than the sort of dancing they had always done in the past. Before, couples lined up and danced in rows. There was hand-holding, and occasionally closer contact, but the waltz was different. During a waltz, you and your partner held one another close and danced around the room together, irrespective of what the other couples were doing, as long as your feet stayed in the right rhythm: one-two-three, one-two-three, one-two-three, one-two-three. 

When Bran put his right hand at Anora’s waist, and held his left hand aloft for her to take, she casually ran her hand across his chest and pressed her thumb against him as it passed across his nipple. 

His breath caught in his chest.

Smiling, Anora took his hand, and together they began to move in time with the music. 

One-two-three, one-two-three. 

His fingers pressed gently at her waist, and began to move in a slow circle. It felt delightful, almost maddeningly so. Anora allowed her fingers to tighten around Bran’s hand, and rubbed her thumb across his. With a smile, he pulled her closer into his arms. 

"You are such an excellent dancer, my darling," he murmured into her ear. His breath warmed her skin in a way that was utterly delicious.

"Yes," she replied. "Isn’t the waltz delightful?" Her hand slid just a bit lower, and then back up again, in a subtle caress, and she brought her lips close, so her breath would fall upon his throat. 

"The waltz is an … admirable invention." His breath came just a bit faster than the pace of the dance would warrant; perhaps the infusion had begun to do its work. "Such a wonderful excuse to hold you close." Now his hand slid lower on her back, just a bit lower than was strictly proper.

One-two-three, one-two-three.

He caught her earlobe between his lips, so briefly she might have thought she had imagined it except for the bloom of warmth that exploded in her belly. A familiar warmth that washed over her and began to burn brightly. Much more brightly than she would have expected. She really hadn’t had enough wine with dinner to explain just how flushed she now felt. 

And the feeling didn’t fade. She felt as though her insides had melted into a warm puddle, and there was an itch between her legs she needed her husband to scratch. She wanted him. Oh, Maker, she wanted him. 

One-two-three, one-two-three.

She wanted him  _now_. 

Her breath caught in her throat. “How much longer do we have to stay at this party?” She murmured the words directly into his ear. It took all her restraint not to press her lips against the the tender skin there.

"Even one more minute will be too long." He groaned softly. "Anora, what did you do?" His fingers pressed more deeply into her flesh.

"What did I do?" The fire in her belly grew brighter and hotter. "What did I do?" Why would he suspect that she had done anything? Unless …

Her eyes grew wide. What if Bran had the same idea she’d had …?

"What did  _you_  do?” she hissed, as Bran twirled her around the dance floor a little more boisterously than usual. 

One-two-three, one-two-three.

"What makes you think I did anything?" A sheen of sweat had broken out on his brow. 

"What makes  _you_  think  _I_  did anything?” She could barely form the words. She wanted to kiss him. To grab at his clothing, and have her way with him. To pull him from the dance floor, and ravage him, right there in the ballroom. But she forced her voice to remain calm. 

"I … I … it was j-just, just a small vial," he stuttered. "Of tribulus." 

Anora gasped. “You put tribulus in my wine?” 

"Yes." He spun her around again. "I had to do something to get you back for the little adventure you had at my expense during the luncheon." 

"But Bran, I put tribulus in  _your_  wine.” 

One-two-three, one-two-three.

His eyes grew wide, and he threw his head back and laughed, so loudly it drew stares from the people dancing nearby.


	5. Deeply satisfied, and bone weary

The King and Queen of Ferelden left the ball early.   
  
Anora had tried to protest: “We can’t very well walk out on all our guests!”  
  
"Yes, we can." Bran’s voice was firm. "They’ll have just as much fun without us. They probably won’t even know we’re gone, and I’ll ask my brother to keep an eye on things in my stead. Besides, I’m the king. I think that means, at least once in a while, I should be able to do what I want. Wouldn’t you agree?"   
  
It was difficult to see any flaw in his logic, really.   
  
They didn’t made it all the way upstairs. Bran pulled her into one of the small, dimly-lit audience rooms right off of the Great Hall, and bent her over a beautifully brocaded sofa, and held her hips as he took her from behind. During her first climax, it had taken all her will not to cry out so loudly that her voice would have carried into the ballroom.   
  
On the second floor, they had made it only as far as the small library Anora used as her office. Anora pushed Bran into the chair she sat upon while writing her correspondence. She straddled him, pinned his arms at his sides, and assumed complete control.   
  
When they finally arrived in the quarters they shared, they’d shed their clothes in the sitting room, and rolled around on the rug in front of the roaring fire.   
  
By the time they made it into their bedroom, they were both sweaty and exhausted, from making love and from the uproarious laughter they’d shared all along the way. The effects of the tribulus had worn off, and Anora was deeply satisfied, and bone weary.   
  
Even so, when Bran reached for her one more time, she came into his arms more than willingly.   
  
"Who knew," she murmured happily, "that the fourth day of the Landsmeet could be such a delight." 


End file.
